


the quiet tenacity of tsukishima kei

by radians



Series: here and everywhere [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Journalism, Future Fic, Interviews, M/M, News Media, Pre-Relationship, Sendai Frogs, professional volleyball
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:27:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24781528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radians/pseuds/radians
Summary: With the V.League division placement playoffs right around the corner, Sendai Frogs middle blocker Tsukishima Kei speaks up about broken bones, zombies, and what comes next.(Or: Tetsurou’s crush is six years old and it smells like summer.)
Relationships: Kuroo Tetsurou/Tsukishima Kei
Series: here and everywhere [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1798855
Comments: 32
Kudos: 210





	the quiet tenacity of tsukishima kei

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Тихое упорство Цукишимы Кея](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25575832) by [named_Juan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/named_Juan/pseuds/named_Juan)



> in which kuroo is a sports journalist who is tasked with writing a profile article on tsukishima

**THE QUIET TENACITY OF TSUKISHIMA KEI**

With the V.League division placement playoffs right around the corner, Sendai Frogs middle blocker Tsukishima Kei speaks up about broken bones, zombies, and what comes next. 

by **Kuroo Tetsurou**

photography by **Haiba Alisa**

March 13, 2019

  
  


**SENDAI CITY GYMNASIUM** —The Sendai Frogs are in the middle of a 3v3 practice match. On one side of the net, in blue jerseys: Hanamaki Takahiro, WS; Futamata Takeharu, S; and Matsukawa Issei, MB. On the other, in red jerseys: Shibata Yuu, WS; Koganegawa Kanji, S; and Tsukishima Kei, MB. 

It’s a game to 15, and the red side is at match point. The current rally has been going on for a while now, and it’s fast, hard, unyielding. It’s just a practice match, but the red team is gunning for the win all the same; the blue team won’t give it up without a fight, all the same. 

And then—Futamata makes a beautiful backset to Hanamaki, who hits it with impeccable form. But it barrels straight into the outstretched arms of Tsukishima, who has been waiting the entire game for this moment. The ball falls onto the blue side of the court just a second before the players do, a chorus of thuds sounding against the wooden floor, turbulent. For a second, no one makes a sound. No one makes a move. No one saw that block coming.

Except, of course, for the blocker himself—Tsukishima Kei, one of the Sendai Frogs’ starting middle blockers. His usual stoic expression morphs into one of sadistic delight, lips curling into a satisfied smirk. He says, “Good game,” all flippant nonchalance, and turns to the stands. Hanamaki groans and flips a bird at Tsukishima’s back. 

Tsukishima stalks toward the end line with the satisfied grace of someone who’s just pissed a bunch of people off and knows it. Behind him, six other players rush onto the court to begin a new game. As he gets closer, the labored rise and fall of his chest becomes apparent, along with the sweat glistening on his temples. There’s a crooked row of water bottles on the bench; Tsukishima picks up the one with a sticker of a cartoon dinosaur stuck to the side. 

  
  


**FEBRUARY 21, 19:29,** SENDAI CITY GYMNASIUM

TSUKISHIMA **:** [impressively unenthused] _You’re early._

JSM: **You seem positively delighted to see me.**

_Practice isn’t even over yet. I wanted to save you from the sight—and the smell—of a dozen really sweaty guys. I’m hardly presentable right now._

**I’m a sports journalist.** **~~And you know I played volleyball in high school~~.** **‘Presentable’ is relative. A gym full of sweaty guys is hardly novel to me.**

[snorts] _Occupational hazard, then? I doubt you get paid enough for it._

~~**[laughs] Hardly.**~~ **Do you? Get paid enough for it, I mean.**

_Well. I’m fairly certain I get paid more than_ you _at least. But—_ [eye roll] _I guess it’s not about the money or whatever. It keeps me busy. And—don’t tell them I said this—but some of the sweaty guys are actually half decent. Occasionally._

( **PICTURED** : _Tsukishima drinking from his dinosaur-embellished Energen water bottle. The sticker is faded and worn by the edges. It has the orange arched logo of the National Museum of Nature and Science stamped in the corner._ ) 

  
  
  


**THE SEASON IS,** for the most part, over. At least, it is for the majority of the Division 2 teams in the V.League. But this year, the Sendai Frogs are the second-best team in the division, which means that they will be playing off against the lowest-ranked Division 1 team in order to decide next year’s division placements. In just a couple of weeks, the Sendai Frogs will be up against VC Kanagawa, this year’s unlucky Division 1 team. 

The Sendai Frogs have been near the top of the Division 2 rankings for years now. The last time the Frogs had the opportunity to play for a spot in Division 1 was just two years ago, in 2015—the year that Tsukishima joined the Frogs. “Last time, we played against the [DESEO] Hornets. We held our own in the first three sets, but they crushed us in the fourth. I didn’t get to play in that game because I was still new, but I don’t think the result would have been any different if I had.” 

He says it with a shrug. It sounds like an admission of futility—it’s not. “That’s not to say that I don’t believe in our ability to win. They outplayed us that year, that’s all. All six of them against all six of us. It wasn’t really a matter of personal skill. We made mistakes as a team. More than they did, at least.” 

Tsukishima has always been devastatingly honest about his own performance. Always quick to analyze and even quicker to criticize, he’s been labelled a defeatist by both the media and his own teammates on more than one occasion. He used to rebut those claims by calling himself a realist—now, he’s realized that realism and pessimism are less mutually exclusive and more like a venn diagram-nearing-a-circle.

“Most of the guys are so unyieldingly optimistic already anyway, I think a dose of pessimistic realism on the team is needed. But of course—it’s different when it’s just me, alone in my mind, without a dozen sweaty guys around to loudly and adamantly tell me I’m wrong. It’s harder then, to remember that oh, maybe I’m not giving myself enough credit.” 

( **PICTURED:** _Tsukishima standing ready by the net in a red jersey, eyes trained on the other side of the court. His hair is plastered to his forehead, shining with sweat. In the background, the blurry forms of Koganegawa and Shibata get in position for the dig_.)

  
  


**FEBRUARY 21, 19:37,** SENDAI CITY GYMNASIUM

TSUKISHIMA: _Please don’t ask me if I think we can win against Kanagawa._

JSM: **Well now I have to ask. Do you think you can win against Kanagawa?**

[glaring] _There’s a reason I didn’t want you to ask me this, and it’s because I genuinely don’t know. I mean, maybe? I don’t think it’s impossible. But I can’t say with any level of certainty that we’ll win for sure either._

**Do you feel like you can win against Kanagawa?**

_Do I—_ [confused pause] _I just told you._

**No, you told me what you thought. I’m asking you what you feel.**

_What—_ [incomprehensible noise] _I mean— I want to win. If things go well, then sure. I’d say it’s probably 50/50. That might sound low, but trust me—it’s high enough for me._

( **PICTURED** : _Tsukishima sitting on the gym floor with his legs spread apart, his hands reaching strenuously toward the camera in an attempt at a straddle stretch._ ) 

  
  
  


┈┈┈┈┈┈

Tetsurou sits idly on the bleachers, watching the team do their cooldown routine. They’re standing in a circle at the center of the court, net and posts already nowhere to be seen, tucked away in the equipment closet until another day. The captain stands in the center of the circle, counting down evens in his booming voice—the rest of the team echoes the odds, a cacophony of voices loud and soft, rough and smooth, coming together in a happy medium that is neither loud nor soft, rough nor smooth, here nor there. 

Tsukishima is among them, bent at the waist and reaching for his toes, the tips of his fingers never quite touching. His lips part only slightly with every count, as if he can’t afford to waste his breath. 

Next to him, Alisa nudges his leg with her knee. “Do you have to spread like that?” she accuses, to which Tetsurou sticks out his tongue. Alisa is always nagging him about something or another. Tetsurou thinks it has to do with the fact that Lev is no longer here for her to fuss over, and so she’s projected her big-sister energy onto him instead.

“Is he the same as you remember?” she asks, nodding toward Tsukishima, who’s now hunched over on the ground in a butterfly stretch. 

“Kind of,” Tetsurou offers. He knows he should take this chance to look back over his notes, but he can’t stop staring at Tsukishima, and the sliver of pale skin that shows when his shirt rides up the curve of his back. His long limbs are no longer as gangly as Tetsurou remembers. There’s muscle now, pulled taut in sinews down the length of his form, graceful and powerful. “He’s definitely grown a lot since last time I saw him from this close.” 

Alisa brings her camera to her face and snaps a photo. Checks it, then snaps another. “How long has it been?”

Tetsurou sighs. Does the math in his head. “Six years?” It sounds like more than it feels. It feels like just yesterday that Tetsurou shook Tsukishima’s hand with one hand while clapping him on the back with the other. It feels like just yesterday that Tetsurou left a slip of paper with his phone number on it in Tsukishima’s bag, and went home to wait, giddy for his call. 

“Wow. Lev was just a baby back then.” 

“He was 15,” Tetsurou corrects with a snort. 

Alisa shoves the camera into Tetsurou’s line of sight. It’s a photo of Tsukishima biting his lip as he struggles to execute a straddle stretch. The lighting puts a gleam in Tsukishima’s eyes like a hunger that can’t be sated. Tetsurou nods, impressed. 

Alisa retracts the camera, setting it gently in her lap. She knows what he’s thinking without having to ask—it’s the one. “Like I said—baby.” 

“You’re just old,” Tetsurou counters. 

Alisa scoffs. “Hardly. I’m just getting started.” 

Tetsurou glances back towards Tsukishima, and turns Alisa’s words over in his mind. _Just getting started._ Tsukishima wraps his arms behind his back, unburdened. Neither loud nor soft, rough nor smooth. Here nor there. 

┈┈┈┈┈┈

  
  
  


**WHEN PRACTICE IS OVER,** Tsukishima leads me out behind the gym toward a sleek grey motorcycle. I raise an eyebrow—Tsuksihima explains with a shrug, “It’s a means to an end. Taking the bus or the train takes too long.”

Tsukishima’s schedule as a professional athlete and full-time student is packed to the brim. He wakes up at 6:00 every morning. He goes for a run before eating breakfast. His classes start at 8:00, which don’t end until 2:00. He eats lunch during a ten minute walk between two of his classes. “At this point, I basically live off of onigiri. If all the other people in Miyagi suddenly stopped eating onigiri, I think I could single-handedly keep the business going.” 

Practice usually starts at 15:00 on weekdays. It lasts until 20:00. Most days, Tsukishima stays afterward for supplementary practice with a couple of other members. “I usually don’t get home until ten. After I eat dinner, I finish up any homework that I didn’t get to do during the day, and I try to go to sleep before midnight.” 

It’s a miracle that Tsukishima manages to get so much done in a day. The fact that he only sleeps six hours every night at most probably helps, but it’s less an explanation and more just another question of how he’s even still on his feet by the end of the day.

“I guess I drink coffee sometimes,” Tsukishima says, nonchalant, when I ask him about it. Even more inexplicable—he only sets one alarm for the morning. 

“Tsukki is just that kind of guy you know? He just gets shit done. Like, I remember in high school I’d text him in a panic because I had a paper due the next morning that I still hadn’t started, and he’d just be like, ‘then why are you still texting me?’” Yamaguchi Tadashi—Tsukishima’s best friend and high school teammate—tells me over the phone. 

“That’s brutal.”

Yamaguchi laughs, short and abrupt, a staticky sound. “It was a kick in the ass for sure. I don’t think ‘procrastination’ exists in his vocabulary.” 

It certainly explains at least a part of the question of how Tsukishima has managed to juggle a professional career while still maintaining his outstanding grades, but Yamaguchi suspects that it’s not the entire story. “He seems like he’s really on top of things, and to a certain extent, he is. But the reason why he insists on filling his schedule to the brim is because, I think, he wouldn’t know what to do with himself otherwise.

“Like he does all this stuff because he has to. Because, if he didn’t, then his world would just finally come crashing down. Paradoxical, I know. He’s a walking, talking, asshole of an oxymoron.” 

( **PICTURED:** _Tsukishima sitting on his motorcycle, glaring at the camera. The streetlight casts a menacing glow over the planes of his face._ ) 

  
  
  


┈┈┈┈┈┈

“Do you want me to give you a ride?” Tsukishima offers, and it’s so unexpected that Tetsurou just blinks dumbly at him for a second. He wants to accept, but he can’t remember how to. Can’t find the words, nor the manners. The loss is terrifying—Tetsurou lives to talk, to write, to string words into sentences for other people to read. He makes a living out of it—to say that he can’t live without them is not hyperbole. 

“Yes. He absolutely wants you to give him a ride,” Alisa cuts in, walking by with a devious smile. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll meet you guys there. Have fun!” 

She raises her camera in lieu of a wave, and when she winks it’s so obnoxious that if there was anything left out of this for Tetsurou to save, there sure as hell isn’t anymore. If Tsukishima sees the wink he doesn’t comment on it; Tetsurou’s only saving grace. He just turns, nonplussed, and looks at him expectantly.

“Well?” he says, holding out a spare helmet. Tetsurou has no idea where it came from. It wasn’t there when they’d walked up; now it is. There. Impossibly so. Like magic.

Tetsurou reaches over to take it, then remembers he’s still holding his phone in his hand. He curses, fumbling to pause the recording and shove the device into his pocket. His cheeks grow warm with embarrassment; days later, when Tetsurou listens to the recording, he’ll blush all over again with the memory, sharper than knives in the forefront of his mind. 

“Thanks,” Tetsurou murmurs, and it sounds pathetic even to him. He waits for Tsukishima to fit his helmet over his head before following suit, like a child just learning how to walk. Tsukishima swings his leg over the side of the bike. Tetsurou swings his leg over the side of the bike. Tsukishima leans forward and takes hold of the handlebar. Tetsurou leans forward and— 

Tsukishima glances over his shoulder. Tetsurou’s palms burn where they fit into the curves of Tsukishima’s waist.

“You’re going to have to hold on tighter than that,” he says, and there’s the barest hint of amusement in the lilt of his voice that makes Tetsurou’s fingers clench instinctively. Tsukishima nods, satisfied. “That’s better.” 

There’s little in terms of warning before Tsukishima revs the engine and sets them in motion. The force of it sends Tetsurou’’s body lurching back—better isn’t enough. He wraps his arms around Tsukishima’s waist because he thinks he’ll fall off otherwise, and he doesn’t even blush at it. Doesn’t get the chance to. 

The beating of his heart turns into revolutions per minute, vibrating in sync with the hum of the machine underneath him. The backdrop whizzes by, incoherent, until it’s just Tetsurou and Tsukishima and the motorcycle under them. Tetsurou and Tsukishima and his heartbeat intensified. Not loud and not soft; not rough and not smooth. Tetsurou and Tsukishima; Tsukishima and Tetsurou. Incandescent, here and everywhere. 

┈┈┈┈┈┈ 

  
  
  


**TSUKISHIMA’S APARTMENT** is everything and nothing like you’d expect it to be.

For one—he lives twenty minutes away from campus by motorcycle. It’s by design, of course—he prefers the quiet of the place, thrice removed from the buzz of campus life. It’s too far from campus to be convenient for students, and too far from everything else to be convenient at all. “Nobody here throws parties. Nobody here does jumping jacks in their living room. Hell, people barely even speak,” he explains, as we’re climbing the stairs up to the fourth floor. 

Second—there’s a cat waiting in the foyer, all lithe lines and calico. It meows when Tsukishima enters, but it’s not a sound that welcomes. It sounds more like a demand, high pitched and entitled. As if to ask: _Where have you been? Never mind that, where is my dinner?_

“You’re probably wondering how I have time to take care of a cat with my shitstorm of a schedule,” he says, before I can get a chance to ask. By the time I finish taking off my shoes, he’s already pouring out a bowl of cat food. “He mostly takes care of himself. I just feed him and change his litter box. If anything, he probably takes care of me more than I do him.” 

Third, and most jarring of all—every wall of the apartment is painted bright yellow. It’s the kind of yellow that’s just yellow enough to feel like sunshine, but not yellow enough to make you wince. It’s the kind of yellow that people paint their gender-neutral nurseries; their summer night firefly glow; their lonesome moons hanging in the sky. It’s the kind of yellow that blooms like a light at the end of a tunnel, gentle and full of possibility.

Last season, just before the semifinals in which the Sendai Frogs were up against the Tamaden Lions, this year’s highest ranking Division 2 team, Tsukishima broke his wrist and couldn’t play in what would turn out to be the Frogs’ last match of the season. “It was so stupid,” he admonishes. A year later, he still admonishes. “I was texting Yamaguchi while I was walking up the stairs, and I tripped over the last step. I was lucky that it happened at the end of the season.”

It was during the months that followed that Tsuksihima painted the walls in his apartment yellow. He did it all using only his left hand—it shows in the quality of the paint job. From up close, the paint is streaky and uneven, brush strokes clearly visible. It almost looks like a work of abstract art. 

“I got bored,” he explains, regarding the walls with the slightest hint of distaste. He treats it like it’s evidence of an unfortunate lapse in his character. It certainly seems out of character—Tsukishima comes across more like the bare white walls kind of guy. Maybe a soft grey at best. “It was like—I was so used to being so busy all the time, and then suddenly I was not. Suddenly, I had a chance to catch my breath, and I discovered that I’d forgotten how to breathe altogether.”

He describes the aftermath of his wrist injury with the quality of a fever dream. Every sentence feels like a teenager learning how to drive—he starts and stops and starts over again repeatedly, as if he can’t quite recall it well enough to put into words. “Just—if it weren’t for Miso”—his cat—“I probably would’ve lost track of time completely. My agent would’ve found me passed out on the kitchen floor or something gruesome like that.” 

( **PICTURED** : _The sliding doors leading out to the balcony in Tsukishima’s apartment, in which the reflection of a dresser and an immaculately made bed are visible. To the left, the canary yellow walls frame the doorway, paired with a set of plain grey curtains._ )

  
  


**FEBRUARY 21, 21:28,** TSUKISHIMA’S APARTMENT 

JSM: [Pointing at a picture from his time at Karasuno] **Are you still friends with Hinata Shouyou and Kageyama Tobio?**

TSUKISHIMA: _I swear, if one more reporter asks me about those two knuckleheads I’m going to lose it._

**Is that a no?**

_No. I mean, yes. We’re still friends. It’s just that—well. If I had ten yen for every time someone interviewed me just to ask about them, I’d be rich enough to just quit and become a hermit living in an extravagant penthouse suite for the rest of my life._

**Well, I promise I’m mostly here to ask about you.**

_Then why are you asking me about them?_

**...Touché. But I do need some people I can call to, you know, ask more about you.**

[A pause] _Ugh. Fine. Here’s Kageyama’s number—I’ll let him know to expect a call from you._

  
  
  


┈┈┈┈┈┈

When Tetsurou called Tsukishima’s agent a week ago to ask about doing a profile on him, all he could think about was how he never changed his number.

Tetsurou never changed his number, which means that Tsukishima still theoretically has it. Or maybe he doesn’t—maybe, he never entered the digits into his phone, never bothered to read past the _call me sometime_ at the top of the folded note _._ Tetsurou figures that’s most likely what happened. He shoves all the other possibilities—all his wishful thinking—down into the deep recesses of his mind. He’s not one to dwell on could haves, would haves. He has a job to do, and he is going to do it. 

And yet, here he is—sitting in front of his laptop, staring at a blank screen. He’s supposed to be transcribing the interview recording for easier editing later, but he’s just sitting there, twirling a pen over and around his fingers. The sound of Tsukishima’s voice floats out from the speakers on his phone, low and light, tone deadpan. It’s a poor approximation of what he sounds like in person, but an approximation is all it takes for Tetsurou to be rendered helpless. Transfixed, by the highs and lows of his voice, a wave strong enough to pull him under. 

Underneath, Tetsurou’s crush is six years old and it smells like summer. It feels like being seventeen and watching Tsukishima lag behind the rest of his team, sprinting up Shinzen hill with dignity and honor. It tastes like the bitter salt of sweat on his lips, like the cold sugar of watermelon, like the scalding smoke of barbecue. It stings like a could have, hurts like a would have, and Tetsurou dwells. 

Oh, does Tetsurou dwell. He dwells on the fragments of Tsukishima that he was lucky enough to bear witness to: the mocking bite of Tsukishima’s wit; the satisfied turn of his lips; the reserved smile that he lets slip when he thinks no one is looking, as if his happiness were a secret to be enjoyed alone. Six years later, and still all Tetsurou wants is to reach into the safe where Tsukishima keeps his secrets and give him another: _you don’t have to be alone._

But Tetsurou’s crush is six years old and it smells like summer. Tetsurou is twenty-four now and he’s writing an article on professional volleyball player Tsukishima Kei, who doesn’t play catch-up anymore. Now, Tsukishima is a force of his own—he’s the epicenter of an earthquake, the first wave of a tsunami. He has a cat and more friends than he’d like to admit. He has a balcony and the walls in his apartment are painted yellow. It’s the end of winter, and Tsukishima is not alone. 

Tetsurou’s crush is six years old and a memory more bitter than sweet. By the time the recording clicks, fading into silence, the time for could have, would have, is already long gone. 

┈┈┈┈┈┈

  
  
  


**KAGEYAMA TOBIO PICKS UP** my FaceTime call in the middle of doing his dishes. He’s wearing his old Karasuno High School sweater, which he laughs off, claiming it was a coincidence. “Tsukishima still wears his too, you know. He’d probably rather die than admit it, but he’s got a bit of sentimentality in him. Just like the rest of us.” 

Kageyama—the genius setter for the 2016 national team as well and the current setter for the Schweiden Adlers, the top-ranked V.League Division 1 team for the past three years—is one of Tsukishima’s closest friends. They played together at Karasuno High School, which became one of Miyagi’s powerhouse schools during their time there. Every year from their first year to their third, they took Karasuno, once referred to as the fallen crows, to the top of high school volleyball—winning straight through prefecturals and on to the Spring High National Tournament. 

But as it turns out, their friendship wasn’t always quite so friendly. “Tsukishima is really easy to hate,” Kageyama says, scrubbing a plate with a dirty sponge. “I think he does it on purpose. I asked him about it once, when I lost my temper and slammed him into the wall after he called me that stupid nickname—’the king’. He was nice to me for approximately three seconds before going right back to being a prickly asshole, but we’ve been friends ever since.” 

In the background, there’s a sound of a crash as a flash of ginger darts across the screen. Kageyama’s phone falls into the sink. There’s a flurry of yelling—Kageyama’s raised voice is as terrifying as you’d expect it to be—before the phone gets scooped up and the blurry image of Kageyama re-appears. “Sorry,” he apologizes. “Where were we?”

I remind him, with a bewildered question about how getting slammed against a wall constitutes the beginning of a friendship. Kageyama shrugs. “‘Cause now I know that he _wants_ me to hate him, and I absolutely refuse to do anything that he wants me to do. So yeah, we’re friends. I know it’s strange, but in a way it’s more honest than any other friendship I’ve had.” 

It’s easy to see why Kageyama thinks so. Tsukishima is blunt in a way that manages to feel genuine. There’s no pretense with him—what you see is exactly what you get. “I’m too busy to keep up a facade,” Tsukishima says, when I ask him about it later. “I’m polite when I need to be and tact isn’t lost on me. I just don’t like to play pretend.” 

Kageyama was named vice captain in their third year, but surprisingly, he wasn’t the first choice. Kageyama confesses that when Ennoshita—their team captain in their second year—chose Yamaguchi as captain, he actually asked Tsukishima to be vice captain first. But Tsukishima turned it down, which is how the position fell to Kageyama. 

“He said that he was too busy to be vice captain, but I think that’s bullshit. I mean, look at how busy he is now,” Kageyama says with a sigh, as he flops down onto his couch. “Not that I blame him. It’s a lot of responsibility. I think he would have been a good vice captain, but it would have made our losses that much harder to bear. 

“For me, for a lot of us—playing volleyball isn’t really a choice. It’s just nature. Pure nature. Never for a second have I questioned whether volleyball is what I was meant to do. But for him, playing volleyball was a conscious choice made in spite of a long line of self doubt and hurt. It’s not that he was fragile, it’s just that sometimes, it’s okay to save yourself some pain. Playing at all is better than not playing. Simple as that.” 

( **PICTURED:** _A blurry photograph of Tsukishima in his third year at Karasuno, posing with the other third years on the team. Yamaguchi stands at the back, his arms wrapped around Kageyama and Tsukishima, who are both scowling at the camera. In between them—Yachi Hitoka, their manager— kneels, brandishing a peace sign. Sprawled carelessly across the floor is Hinata Shouyou, who now plays opposite for the MSBY Black Jackals._ )

  
  


┈┈┈┈┈┈

The day after Tetsurou called Tsukishima’s agent, she told him she’d give Tsukishima his number and Tsukishima would contact him. Tsukishima called him that afternoon, six years late and too polite for Tetsurou’s taste, only to get the details for the first interview in order. Tsukishima wasted no time—Tetsurou had to scramble to keep up. And when the line went dead after an abrupt _See you then_ , Tetsurou had a notepad full of miscellaneous information and Tsukishima’s schedule waiting in his inbox. 

It went by quickly enough that Tetsurou didn’t get a chance to think about it. He barely even remembers the conversation at all. But this time, Tsukishima texts. The message is short, flayed to the bones of necessity— _Café Bleu, Sunday 4pm?_ Tetsurou stares at it for a minute straight, and then for another. As if it might change under his scrutiny. It doesn’t.

_Couldn’t wait to see me again? ;)_ Tetsurou replies after fifteen minutes of typing and re-typing his response. He locks his phone immediately after pressing send to save himself the mortification of his idiocy. But his phone vibrates barely a second later, and despite his best efforts to leave it alone, Tetsurou gives in, scrambling to see what Tsukishima’s said.

**tsukishima [23:25]**

_Did it really take you that long to string together that sentence? Should I be concerned about the article you’re writing about me?_

**Kuroo-san [23:26]**

_im going to tell the world that youre a meanie butt :(_

**tsukishima [23:27]**

_I’m pretty sure they already know, but sure, hammer it in one more time. Just in case they haven’t figured it out yet._

**Kuroo-san [23:27]**

_anyways_

_sunday 4pm works for me : > _

Tsukishima acknowledges the message with a thumbs up, ending the exchange. Tetsurou flops back into the too-soft pillows of the hotel bed, cursing when his head knocks against the backboard. A cursory google search tells him that Café Bleu is fifteen minutes away by bus. A glance at the calendar tells him that Sunday is two days away. Two days and fifteen minutes until Tetsurou sees Tsukishima again. Two days and fifteen minutes to quash a crush that is six years old and still smells like summer. 

┈┈┈┈┈┈

  
  
  


**FEBRUARY 24, 16:09,** CAFÉ BLEU

TSUKISHIMA: _I don’t really drink coffee for the caffeine. I just kind of like the taste. Well actually, I like the smell. I hate the taste. Whose idea was it to make something that smells so good taste so bad?_

JSM: **Is that why your drink of choice is Kahlúa and milk?**

_Yeah, I guess so. Kahlúa is just all the good things about coffee minus all the bad things._

**And it’s alcohol.**

[laughs] _Yeah, and it’s alcohol._

  
  


**TSUKISHIMA DOES, IN FACT** , drink coffee. He orders one now even though it’s four in the afternoon, and when it comes to the table he plucks three packets of brown sugar out of the table caddy. He dumps them into the mug, which is just a regular sized mug, along with enough creamer to turn the dark liquid nearly blonde. 

“Don’t tell my coach about this,” he says, taking a sip. “Well actually, tell him if you want. He probably already knows anyway.” 

Tsukishima’s sweet tooth is hardly a secret. He’s touched on it before in other interviews, to varying degrees of judgement. Although his diet as a professional athlete leaves little room for processed sugars, Tsukishima lets himself bend the rules a little on Sundays, which is the only day of the week that the Frogs don’t have practice. 

He usually spends his Sundays catching up on homework. Outside of being a professional volleyball player, he’s a fourth year anthropology major at Tohoku University, set to graduate with honors in just under a month. He already has a job lined up at the Sendai City Museum, where he’ll be starting as an archivist in mid-April. 

“Does that have anything to do with why you have a dinosaur sticker on your water bottle?” 

“You saw that?” He seems surprised, so I show him the picture we got of him drinking from his dinosaur-stickered Energen bottle. “God. Are you going to put that in the article? If I’d known your plan was to expose me as a dork I wouldn’t have agreed to this interview.” 

He’s kidding—or at least, I think he is. It’s kind of hard to tell, with his chronically deadpan voice. It’s in that same voice that he answers, “Yeah, my favorite movie as a kid was Jurassic Park, and becoming an archaeologist is what I decided on when I was like, six years old. I didn’t even really know what archaeologists do. I just thought sauropods were cool.”

“The ones with the long necks?”

He laughs. A real one this time—twinkling, full of a childhood joy. “Yeah, the ones with the long necks.”

Turns out, archaeology is a lot more than just dinosaurs, Tsukishima informs me, as if he didn’t have a clue about it until he’d stepped into his first archaeology class four years ago. Knowing him, that’s definitely not the case, but I accept the joke as it is. Through sips of coffee, he says that the broadness of the field didn’t scare him away—rather, the more he learned, the more he felt that it was ultimately the right choice. 

“This is probably going to sound weird, but it’s really comforting to know that, someday in the far future, when I’ve been forgotten and—maybe humans aren’t humans anymore but something entirely different—someone will brush the dirt off of my bones and remember me once more.” 

“That does sound a little weird.” 

He rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.” 

I do. I know exactly what he means, and it’s not weird at all. 

( **PICTURED** : An image of Tsukishima sipping from a mug, taken from the other side of a windowpane. In the foreground, a branch laden with leaves hangs, shadows falling delicately over Tsukishima’s face.) 

  
  
  


**THE LAST DAY** for Tsukishima to decide whether or not to continue playing with the Frogs next year is coming up—the deadline falls exactly a week after the match against VC Kanagawa. Tsukishima is still undecided, which even he admits is odd for him; he’s used to having his life planned out months, if not years, in advance. 

“When I signed on, I told myself that it’d just be until I could find a job. But now that I’ve found a job, I almost don’t want to let it go,” he confesses. “I mean—I imagine myself working a nine-to-five and it just seems so empty. What the hell am I going to do with all that extra time? Sleep?” 

As far as Tsukishima’s concerned, he has three options. 1) Commit to working at the museum full time and join a recreational league instead, or 2) commit to working at the museum part time, and continue playing for the Frogs professionally, or 3) defer his job offer at the museum until his professional career comes to a natural end. 

“But the problem with number three is the same as the problem with number one. What will I do outside of volleyball without school or work? I guess I’m sort of leaning towards option number two right now, but—no promises.”

I ask if he’s ever considered that having more free time might be a good thing. He looks at me like I’m crazy. “Did you miss the part where I painted all the walls in my apartment yellow because I couldn’t go to practice for three months?” he reminds me, as if I could forget. 

After a bit more poking and prodding, he concedes that some of his breaks have been marginally less disastrous. “I took an online class about the zombie apocalypse and human behavior during disasters during summer break two years ago out of sheer boredom. I suppose that was rather interesting.” 

This is not where I expected the conversation to go, so I do the next logical thing—I ask him what he would do in a zombie apocalypse. “Honestly, I don’t know. Sometimes, it feels like every day is already its own apocalypse. We’re all just trying to be good in a cruel, indifferent world. To think it could be worse is sobering, to say the least. But if this were in a movie—I’d be the badass lone ranger that the main party happens upon who doesn’t want to join the group at first but eventually gives in.”

  
  
  


┈┈┈┈┈┈

The night before his last day in Sendai, Tetsurou finally starts drafting his article on Tsukishima.

It’s more painful than first drafts usually are for him. It feels like Tsukishima is there with him, sitting in the same room as he is, looking over his shoulder as he writes; every word feels like walking a tightrope, just barely on the brink of confession. The lines wither, recoiling under his invisible scrutiny. Tetsurou makes it barely three paragraphs in before he’s pushing himself away from the desk to pull out his phone and FaceTime the only person in the world who knows what’s on the line. 

“What do you want,” Kenma barks, with an expression that says that Tetsurou definitely called at a bad time.

“Do you have a moment? I need your opinion on the article I’m writing.”

Kenma sighs. “You have—” he looks off to the side—“four minutes and thirty one seconds before my stream starts.” 

Tetsurou reads what he’s written as fast as he can without garbling the words into incomprehensibility. Kenma listens, shrewd and attentive—his expression doesn’t change the entire time Tetsurou speaks, which just makes Tetsurou read faster. If only to get it over with. If only so that he’ll stop looking at Tetsurou like that, and tell him exactly what he needs to hear.

Tetsurou draws out the last line for a splash of dramaticism, which is lost entirely on Kenma. He blinks blankly at Tetsurou—Tetsurou blinks nervously back. Waiting for his judgement, which Tetsurou knows will be as objective as judgement can be. 

“It’s fine,” Kenma says after a moment. There’s a slight furrow between his brows that makes it seem like it’s _not_ entirely fine, and so Tetsurou waits for him to continue.

Moments pass before he realizes Kenma’s not going to volunteer the information himself. “But?” he pushes, bracing himself for the blow. 

This time, when Kenma sighs, it’s less annoyed and more exasperated, as if he can’t believe that Tetsurou needs him to say whatever it is out loud. “It’s just… fine. I don’t know. It sounds like you’re just regurgitating what he said. Which I guess is fine—that’s what people are reading it for. But you sound like a robot. Or worse, like you just don’t care.” 

It’s exactly what Tetsurou was afraid of, which is to say it’s exactly what he was expecting. It sounds different though, coming from Kenma, than it does in the voice in the back of his mind. It’s sharper, clearer, more concise. Certain, free of doubt and unburdened. Neither here nor there.

Tetsurou swallows the lump in his throat. “Thanks. Text me when you’re done streaming.” 

“Kuro—” Kenma says, just as Tetsurou’s about to end the call. “Just write it like no one’s going to read it. You can edit it to sound less like it was written by a high schooler in love when it’s done.” 

Tetsurou snorts. Kenma knows him too well. “Is that what I sound like?” 

“Yes. Now bye,” Kenma says in a rush, ending the call before Tetsurou can say _bye_ back. Tetsurou says it into the empty hotel room anyway, whispered, like an exorcism—banishing the imaginary audience from the corners of his mind.

┈┈┈┈┈┈

  
  
  


**THE FIRST LINE** in Sugawara Koushi’s email to me, titled _On Tsukishima Kei,_ reads like this: “I once read an article that called Tsukishima’s block against Ushijima Wakatoshi—back during his first year at Karasuno—a ‘once in a lifetime stroke of luck’. I had to immediately stop reading. To call it that is to grossly underestimate Tsukishima’s character.”

Tsukishima laughs when I show him Sugawara’s quote. “It _was,_ in the end, a stroke of luck though. A really painful one too. I don’t know if I’d want to do it again, even if I got the chance to.” 

Except, I remember watching that game—six years ago in the grainy technicolor of the family plasma TV, sitting on the edge of the couch—and it was definitely _more_ than just a stroke of luck. Sugawara, who had been Karasuno’s vice captain in Tsukishima’s first year, agrees. “The thing is—opportunities like that don’t just appear out of nowhere. You don’t beat the odds by only playing once. You play over and over and over again, until one day, the odds are on your side. If only for a moment.” 

They say that a moment is all it takes—for Tsukishima, it rings true. “That was when I knew that I just had to keep playing volleyball, no matter what,” Tsukishima admits. “If it weren’t for that moment, I might not be here, talking to you today.” 

“But Tsukishima is more than just one block, one moment,” Sugawara writes to me. The urgency of what he has to say shows through even in his writing—I find myself on the edge of my seat, leaning closer to my computer screen. “Tsukishima is like the moon. He rises, every night, to the occasion. He waxes and he wanes, but you know without a doubt that when you need him the most, he’ll be there—full and bright, shining through the darkness with a light of his own.” 

( **PICTURED:** _A still taken from a video of Karasuno’s fateful game against Shiratorizawa in October of 2012. On one side of the net: Tsukishima Kei and Azumane Asahi, jumping for a block. On the other: Ushijima Wakatoshi, the number one ace in the Miyagi prefecture at the time, who now plays opposite for the three-time champion of V.League Division 1, the Schweiden Adlers. Between them—the blue-yellow swirl of the ball, caught in the space between Tsukishima’s arms, suspended just before its fall onto Shiratorizawa’s side of the net._ ) 

  
  
  


**FEBRUARY 27, 06:13** , MIZUNOMORI PARK

JSM: **How can you possibly run at this hour? It’s too early to be alive.**

TSUKISHIMA: _Like you didn’t have to wake up at six when you were in high school._

**That’s different. I had no choice. You** **_chose_ ** **this.**

_Don’t remind me. I try not to think about it too much._

**Does that work?**

_Yeah, usually I’m too busy trying to remember how to breathe._

  
  


**JUST LIKE HE SAID** , Tsukishima rises every morning at six to go for a run in Mizunomori park. Today, he’s not running, as a courtesy to me and our photographer. Or at least, that’s what he claims—I suspect he’s more pleased than he lets on. 

The park is a nook of nature in the city, overlooking a small river that glistens blue, rippling reflections of the clouds in the sky. Tsukishima leads me onto a paved trail that runs parallel to the river, with only a railing and a line of hedges separating land from water. When the river ends, it leads through a small forest, pavement overrun with weeds sprouting through the cracks.

It’s beautiful, but when I point it out it comes almost as a surprise to Tsukishima. His step falters, expression drawing into one of deep concentration. “I suppose it is,” he says, after taking a second to really look around. “I never really noticed. It’s usually just kind of a blur at the edges of my vision.”

He grows quiet then, and the questions that float through my mind come to a standstill. The lines in his face relax into something softer, more peaceful, and even if I had the words, I wouldn’t dare to break the silence. For the first time in the past week, he looks at ease. There is nowhere to go; nowhere to leave. He’s just there—here, and everywhere. Incandescent.

When he speaks, it’s with a quiet strength. “Thank you,” he says suddenly. “I think I know what to do now.” 

This time, it’s my turn to be surprised—I don’t know what he’s thanking me for. “What are you going to do?” 

“First, I’m going to sell my motorcycle.” If I had even an inkling of an idea for what he’s talking about, it’s just evaporated into thin air. “As for the rest—you’ll find out soon enough,” he says, with an echo of a smile. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

I almost push him for more—but at the last second I decide not to. Whatever he’s going to do—it’s not ready to be announced. Not yet. 

We’ll find out soon enough.

( **PICTURED** : _Tsukishima leaning over the railing by the river in Mizunomori Park, staring peacefully into the distance. In the background, a crow spreads its wings over the railing, getting ready to take flight._ )

_**Kuroo Tetsurou** is a staff writer at Japan Sports Magazine._

  
  
  


┈┈┈┈┈┈

“It was really nice getting to talk to you,” Tetsurou says when they reach the entrance of the park. On the other side of the open gates, the city awaits with bated breath for the rush of the morning crowd. Tsukishima’s grey motorcycle, parked at the side of the street, glitters in the pale light. 

“You must be the only reporter in the world to think so,” Tsukishima says drily. He slows to a stop where nature melts into the city, and when he looks into Tetsurou’s eyes there is something in them that wasn’t there before.

Tetsurou flashes him a crooked smile. “What can I say, I’m a special guy.” 

“I guess you could say that,” Tsukishima says, voice lilting. Playful, almost—as playful as Tsukishima gets. 

Suddenly, Tetsurou’s heart is eighteen and turning somersaults down Shinzen Hill. Suddenly, Tetsrou’s crush is six years old and growing older everyday, and he really needs to go. Really needs to let go. 

“So I guess this is goodbye.” 

It’s the end of winter, and goodbye tastes bittersweet on his tongue. It’s a taste he’s never tasted before—he never did say goodbye the first time around. This time, he’ll do it right. This time, he’ll finally let Tsukishima go. 

But Tsukishima, always the contrarian, has different plans. “Next time I’m in Tokyo,” Tsukishima starts, because he refuses to be let go of. Tetsurou listens, because he’s not ready to let go yet. “I’ll buy you a drink. In return for the coffee.”

“In return for the coffee,” Tetsurou parrots dumbly. His resolve slips through the cracks between his fingers. Is this what could have been? Is this what would have been? “Sure—you have my number. Call me whenever.” 

Tsukishima nods. “I will.” 

Tetsurou shifts on his feet. “Okay.” 

“See you,” Tsukishima says, and it sounds like a promise. He turns around, walks to his bike. Every step a promise.

Tetsurou watches Tsukishima walk to his bike. Tetsurou watches Tsukishima give one last wave. Tetsurou watches Tsukishima pull away, into the street and down the road. It’s the end of winter, but the hedges are dotted with the buds of spring, pale and naive. 

Tetsurou’s crush is six years old and it smells like summer. It smells like summer, but Tetsurou thinks that one day, it’ll smell like spring and autumn and winter too. One day—here and everywhere. Soon enough. Sooner than he thinks. 

┈┈┈┈┈┈

  
  
  


**COMMENTS** on _The Quiet Tenacity of Tsukishima Kei_

**Tsukishima Akiteru** 03/13/19 15:01  
KEI? Please call me if you’re going to do something rash. 

**TsukkiFan11** 03/13/19 15:03  
This has to be the most words Tsukki has ever said in any interview ever??! 

**Akaashi Keiji** 03/13/19 15:09  
This is really well written, Kuroo-san. I enjoyed reading it. Thank you.

**MAKO** 03/13/19 16:48  
why is he so hot ;-; unfair 

**Igarashi Shunsuke** 03/13/19 17:34  
Tsukishima Kei is the scum of the earth, but you made him sound actually kind of decent. Not sure how I feel about it. 

**Haiba Lev** 03/13/19 18:12  
is he taller than me? kuroo-san pls i need to kno

 **Haiba Alisa** 03/13/19 18:02 _replying to Haiba Lev  
_Google is free, Lyovochka. But no, he’s not taller than you.

**Bokuto Koutarou** 03/13/19 20:04  
WAIT BRO CAN YOU INTERVIEW ME NEXT?? I WANT YOU TO INTERVIEW ME NEXT!!

**Mizuna Bellerose** 03/13/19 20:58  
Wait can we talk about Tsukishima’s yellow walls? 

**Daishou Suguru** 03/14/19 11:23 _replying to Mizuna Bellerose  
_ikr what was he thinking? should’ve painted them green smh 

_↓ SHOW 111 MORE COMMENTS_

  
  


**READ MORE:**

**Hinata Shouyou on Brazil, Beach Volleyball, and Sunscreen** by Suzumeda Kaori, 02/15/19

 **The Now that Lasts: Living and Playing Bravely, According to Miya Atsumu** by Enaga Fumi, 03/09/19

 **Sendai Frogs vs. VC Kanagawa: A Match to Remember** by Kuroo Tetsurou, 03/22/19

**Author's Note:**

> this was inspired by [this quarantine interview](https://www.gq.com/story/robert-pattinson-on-batman-tenet-isolation-june-cover) of robert pattinson
> 
> i had a lot of fun writing this. i actually finished writing this in like, less than a week. i'm kind of astounded, it usually takes me months to write like, 5 words. anyway, i'm probably going to write a sequel at some point, because like, i can't just NOT after this ending. just--*screams* 
> 
> also, i've been informed that motorcycles actually have handles on the back seat so that u dont have to hold on to the person in front of you and---lets just pretend kuroo's an absolute idiot and didn't see them.
> 
> if you liked this, you can find me @tetsuwus on [twitter](https://twitter.com/tetsuwus) or [tumblr](https://tetsuwus.tumblr.com) (i'm more active on twitter)
> 
> until next time,  
> tuna


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